Chapter 1: The Storm Arrives

In the third month of my pregnancy, my husband’s dadi descended on us like a monsoon cloud, determined to show everyone who was boss.

The moment she stepped into our cramped Pune flat, the air changed—thickening with something sharp and electric. Even the ceiling fan creaked out a warning, its steady click-click-click joining the pulse in my throat. Instinctively, I pressed my palm to my belly, feeling a flutter—was it the baby, or just my nerves? I wondered if my little one could sense the storm swirling around us. A childhood memory flashed: me, searching frantically for my missing kitten, heart pounding with helpless dread. That ache of loss found me again, more raw than ever.

She did the unthinkable: killed the dog I’d raised for three years and made biryani out of him, as if cruelty was a spice to be savoured.

Not even the neighbours’ gossip echoing down the corridor could drown out the horror. I’d just returned from the bathroom, drying my hands on my dupatta, when the kitchen filled with a mouthwatering aroma that, for once, made my stomach roil. The thought of Sheru becoming someone’s meal made my skin crawl. The back of my neck prickled, heart pounding—how could anyone be so heartless?

At the dining table, she boasted loudly, not caring who heard:

"Arey, pedigree ka kutta ka maas—kya taaza hota hai!"

She wiped her mouth with her saree pallu, eyes glinting with mischief, as if this was the best joke she’d played all year. My hands went numb. My mother-in-law sat frozen, not daring to lift her gaze. My husband’s face turned a sickly white. Her words hung in the air, heavier than even the aroma of biryani.

After the meal, she commanded me to kneel and bow before the turtle she’d raised for forty years, insisting it was my god-grandmother.

With the old lady holding the turtle aloft like some holy relic, I swallowed my revulsion and bent low, touching my forehead to the cool marble—the way I’d done at every pooja since childhood, hoping my knees wouldn’t give way. My face was a mask of respect, the one you wear for elders you dare not contradict.

I did exactly as she asked, though every muscle in my body protested.

I stole a glance at my husband, silently pleading for backup. He met my gaze, helpless and stricken. My in-laws looked on, mortified, but none dared step in. I folded my hands, knuckles white, and pressed my forehead to the floor, swallowing the lump in my throat.

But the old lady didn’t know—gaining a god-grandmother is easy. Getting rid of one is another story.

As I stood, her eyes bored into my back. I thought of my own nani’s stories—how daughters-in-law rebelled in silence. For a moment, I let my lips curl in a secret, defiant smile. In our homes, relationships are sticky like gud—once they cling, you can’t scrape them off so easily.